Cherokee Rose
by WonkyFaintThing
Summary: *currently unfinished* Short story of 12 y/o Daryl meeting a dying girl who tells him about the Cherokee Rose. I apologise for any misinformation on Daryl or anything that doesn't flow with the TV Series (am still watching 2nd series). At the moment, I have hardly written any of this story, due to uncertainty of anyone reading this. WARNING: Contains bucket loads of swearing.
1. Chapter 1

It was finally over.

Lying there, blood drooling onto the dirty wooden porch, Daryl fought his every instinct to break down and cry. His eyes blurred and fingers shook as emotion threatened to overtake.

'No!' He thought angrily, painfully crushing his knuckles into the ground. "I will not cry."

He desperately thought back to the day, six years ago, when his brother first told him how to deal with their father when he was drunk.

Merle, as his name was, had found Daryl huddled under the kitchen table, ashen white with a brilliant purple bruise flowering just under his eye. Scooping him up, dumping him on the dusty kitchen counter and hastily shoving a bag of frozen peas onto his face, Merle told him how he survived each day with what he like to call 'The Beast'.

"First things first," He'd said gruffly. "You stay out of his way." Daryl nodded slowly, this was easy, he'd seen the things his father was capable of and knew better than to go and annoy him after he'd had a few.

"If that don' work," Merle paused, as if to think. "then no cryin', he gon' think he raised a pussy for a son, ain't no father want no goddamn whiny bitch bawlin' at him every time he gets mad." Another pause. "Ain't no fightin' back either, he's way too strong for your scrawny ass." He said, cruelly jabbing his finger into Daryl's chest. "It'd be best if you just stayed on his good side, and if you can't…Well you better fuckin' make sure you don't get him any angrier."

Stepping back, as if to let the message sink in, Merle surveyed him.

"You'd better scram, don' want him catchin' you lookin' like some beat-ass pansy."

Daryl remembered the rest of that day well, sitting alone in his dead mothers' closet, forcing himself to bury all his emotions.

Now, closing his eyes, he slowly pushed himself off the ground.

"I ain't no fuckin' bitch." He muttered angrily, ignoring the throbbing pain in his temple.

Wiping away the stream of blood from his nose, he staggered down through his ramshackle garden, plonking himself dejectedly down on a tall tree stump. Weeds tangled their way through the nooks and crannies of the stump, careening down and into the tall jungle of dry grass. A few lonely trees swayed gently in the cool afternoon breeze, insects buzzing lazily through the branches in the hot sunshine.

Turning away from this somewhat beautiful spectacle, Daryl stared at his calloused dirty feet, he hadn't cut his toenails in months and after endless days of careering through the woods with Merle, they'd practically turned into brown speckled stubs.

A small, uncontrollable rush of worry coursed through him at the thought of his older brother. The last he'd heard from him was three months ago, when a letter from the district court came in through the mail. His father, who was as per usual, completely wasted, tore the letter up without even reading it, declaring in a woozy voice that 'the boy was no son of his', and sloped off into the kitchen and collapsing headfirst into the badly stocked fridge.

Daryl had waited patiently in the old beaten up couch that stood in the far corner of their living room, watching the events unfold with a wary glimmer of hope. Slowly, making sure that his father was out of it, he picked up the shredded pieces of the letter. Stealing away into his room, he delicately pieced back what he could of the letter.

Dear Mr. Dixon

Following the recent arrest of your son, Mr. Merle Dixon, for possession and trade of illicit substances (including, but not limited to: Marijuana, Cocaine and Heroin), we request you attendance at Mr. Dixons' Court Hearing on Wednesday the 18th of November.

The next few lines were to shredded to read, but Daryl ploughed through regardless.

Refusal or – will be followe-

Mr. Dixon is facing a full sentence including 4 months of – and a possibility of fine.

Please contact Willow Davis a – to confirm attendance of Hearing at 395 Haast Road –

The rest of the letter was gone.

In the days leading up to that Wednesday, Daryl had valiantly tried to find 395 Haast Road.

Living hundreds of miles away from the small farming community of Sailbridge, which was too small to host any kind of Court or Prison, Daryl had eventually given up his search for his missing brother. And when that Wednesday had finally rolled around, he had already swept the torn letter away and given up hope of seeing his brother again.

Tearing himself away from the dark depths of his mind, Daryl rose slowly, his knees nearly giving way with the sudden crush of hideous pain. Running his hands slowly down his body he felt nothing apart from a few steadily swelling bruises. Seemingly relived at this, he turned back towards the house, beginning his sluggish, painful walk back to the porch.

Broken bones had never fared well with Daryl. Being stuck in a grotty bedroom with the sole company of the few mice who dared enter his room, but even that felt like nothing when Merle was away. With no-one to bring home the night's dinner, his father would be absolutely livid. For the first few nights, Daryl would have nothing to listen to but the sound of an enraged man smashing plates, punching walls, frenzied by drink and hunger.

Shivering, despite the boiling heat of the day, he forced himself to push past the long cold memories.

He cursed, for the past few weeks he'd found himself lost within his own mind. Kneeling down, he pummelled his head. "You goin' fuckin' crazy now?" He muttered angrily to himself, tearing at the dying grass. "This it? THIS ALL YOU CAN TAKE?!"

His voice became a frenzied roar, built up emotion poured out of him, making the world spin and duck hazily. Blindly he began to tear at his eyes, scratching and clawing, unearthly cries drowning him in a sea of pain and anguish. Unaware of what he was even doing, he mindlessly began to slam his forehead into the dirt.

Again and again and again. "Let me go, let me go, let me GO!" He roared to no-one.

And, as it should, the world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

His mind was fuzzy.

Trapped in that one perfect moment before you fully awake and remember who you are, Daryl tried desperately to stay within this elation, this emotionless blur as thoughts melted away in the back of his mind. It didn't last though, the solid weight of life suddenly dropped upon him like a falling brick.

Some people say that ignorance is bliss, and those people are right.

Slowly adjusting to the dim light, Daryl propped himself up on one elbow, using his other arm to massage his pounding head. Blearily taking in his surroundings, his fuggy mind attempted to piece together his last moments of consciousness. Groaning with the realization of what he done, _again_, he cursed himself for being so pathetic.

He looked around him, one thing was certain, he wasn't in his garden anymore. Instead he was inside what one could only call a barn. Dusty wooden framework loomed above him, catching the last rays of the day of the setting sun. Hay-bales were stacked neatly beside him, and turning lightly turning his head, he saw that two giant barn doors were opened wide, framing the serenity of the woods glowing in the golden sun like a giant painting.

A small giggle suddenly echoed out from behind him, surprising him immensely. Twisting around jerkily, Daryl instinctively reached down for his cross-bow, his fingers clasping at thin air.

"What are you doing?" A young curious voice asked.

Looking up, he saw the willowy figure of a small girl staring down at him. Her face was pale, dark shadows contrasting fiercely underneath two narrowed blue eyes.

"Wh- you- wha-?" Daryl mumbled stupidly, his head thumping at the sharp jerk of his neck.

The girl backed away slightly, as if put off by him speaking.

"You're not…" She paused, as if to think of the right phrase. "One of those.. Crazy people, right?"

He gazed dumbly at her for a moment, his mind at a complete blank as to what was going on.

She was wearing a pale blue dress, immaculate white stockings reaching from below the ribbon trimmed hemming at her knees and into polished leather boots. Her blond hair was chopped straight across her eyebrows, curling just under her angular chin at the sides. Her small mouth was half open in an O of curiosity, lips barely a shade darker than the rest of her skin. The only thing that convinced Daryl that she was not a doll was the way she stood, her shoulders were hunched forward and her legs shook delicately, as if the very effort of her standing was too much.

"What? No," He said abruptly, snapping out of his confused trance. "and who the hell are you? Why'm I even here anyway, what the fuck?"

He stood suddenly, ignoring the fact that every muscle in his body was screaming at him to collapse back down again. He towered over the girl, blocking the sunlight from her face. Her pupils dilated with fear, suddenly realizing how menacing Daryl actually looked. Chuckling to himself, he turned away. Not even caring who the hell the damn girl was, and why he'd found himself lying on the floor of a barn, he instead brought his attention back to the fact of getting home before his father realized that there was no dinner on the table.

The girl seemed frozen to the spot, Daryl began to walk away, back out into the fading light of the evening.

"Wait," She called. "Don't you want know who I am, or why you're here?"

Not even bothering to face her, Daryl replied with an uninterested "Nope."

Her footsteps crunched lightly against the messy barn floor as she grabbed hold of his arm, pulling at it impatiently, her small soft fingers barely closing over his taught muscle.

Grunting impatiently, he tried to shake her off, but she was persistent. "Why were you all beaten up? And why were you screaming? I fixed you up you know, you should at least thank me for that."

Daryl stopped, looking back at her stubborn face. "What the hell you even talkin' about?"

Gently pulling back his sleeve, she showed him a clean bandage expertly wrapped around his bruised arm. He also realized that he had about three plasters covering the various cuts on his face. Touching them lightly, his face suddenly hardened.

"Look kid," He said angrily. "I ain't some doll, you can't jus' drag me out of my house and play pretend with me, then expect me to join in with your stupid games. I have stuff to do, so jus' buzz off. Lord even knows why, or how the hell you managed to drag me out here in the firs' place."  
"It was easy" She replied brightly, ignoring his criticisms. "I pulled you along in my wagon, mother said I needed more exercise anyway."

Rolling his eyes, Daryl shrugged the little girl from him. Facing back into the evening, which had now turned to a worrying pink glimmer, he didn't give so much as a glance back as he trekked off into the trees.

"My name's Rose by the way. Not that you even care." A sullen voice yelled back out to him.

She was right though, he didn't care.


	3. Chapter 3

Branches swayed gently above Daryl's head, small birds ducking and weaving through the tangled mass of leaves, chirping discordantly as the sun rose higher into the clear blue sky.  
Ignoring the beauty of his surroundings, Daryl instead surveyed the leafy grounds, looking for anything that would pin-point him in the direction of the deer he'd seen meandering through the wilderness not five minutes ago.  
If only his brother were here. Merle could track almost anything, granted that he gave half a damn about it. He seemed to become an entirely different person within the trees, gone was the constant scowl, the jeering criticisms and hurtful words, replaced by something close to happiness.  
Merle had coped alone in that hell-hole of a home for six years before his younger brother was born. He had also been closer to their mother, who never bothered to hide the fact that she despised Daryl, often telling him that he had torn the Dixon family apart the day he was born. Falling into a great depression after her untimely death, Daryl still clearly remembered the day that they buried their mother's most treasured possessions in a box at the back of the garden.  
There wasn't much in there, a chipped pocket watch that she kept beside her bed, a few tacky rings and a scruffy old tobacco box that she'd flip open and shut when she was stressed.  
After sprinkling the last of the dirt over the box, Merle angrily threw his spade across the garden, muttering profanities as he stomped back into the house. Hearing the back door slam loudly, Daryl realized with a faint sinking feeling in his heart that, while burying what was left of their mother, Merle had also buried himself, his true self, sheltering it from the hideousness of the world.  
It wasn't important anyway. Merle wasn't here, and neither were any godamn animals.  
Muttering to himself, Daryl stalked off into thicker foliage. Food was running low back at the house. His father had recently lost his job at the butchery in Sailsbridge, the first time he'd managed to scrape himself together and get a job in two years, and they were back on the Unemployment Benefit. It was quite funny really, the way his father would propel himself into action every time booze money was running low.

Never really understanding how he managed to claim money from the government, Daryl could only stand back and watch as each week his father would stagger into the house, his fists curled around what was left of the money, the rest of it pissed away at the dingy bar in town.  
A small rustling noise drew Daryl's attention back to the present. A tall blackberry bush a few meters ahead of him quivered slightly, as if someone was shaking the branches from the other side.  
He quietly began to circle around the bush, slowly lifting his cross-bow. The probability of it being the elusive deer he saw earlier was less than slim, but for a few wild moments he let himself believe that he might actually be dragging a full deer home for dinner.  
He rounded the bush, his cross-bow aimed high, and saw with a drooping heart that it was not a deer, but rather a small girl, collecting berries from the bush.  
With a start he realized it was the same damn girl from last week. What was she doing here? Nobody ever came out into the woods. The few houses near the Dixon house were either holiday homes or farming cottages, the majority of the inhabitants too busy to go wandering around the virtually useless forest. The few times Daryl had ever seen anyone was during hunting season, usually gruff bearded men clutching rifles, their faces wide and alert.  
The girl was completely opposite to this, carrying nothing but a small plastic punnet, completely unaware to the fact that Daryl was standing meters away from her, a cross-bow aimed at her head. Hastily realizing what he was doing, he dropped it low, and began to quietly back away, not wanting to get back into conversation with the strange girl.  
Unfortunately for him, a large gnarled root was twisted out from under the dirt, centimetres from his feet. Catching his heel on the root, he tumbled downwards, his elbows smashing onto the ground painfully. His cross-bow flew out of his hands and struck a tree with what Daryl thought was the loudest clash he'd heard in his entire life.  
Hurriedly pushing himself off the ground, disregarding the vines of blood streaming from the deep scrapes on his elbows, he darted over to where his cross-bow now lay.  
"Fuck" he muttered to himself, flipping it over in is hands.  
The right limb had a deep crack running through its side, and the string had snapped.  
His heart thumped heavily in his chest, how the hell was he supposed to fix this? It was awful enough turning up at home without food, he didn't even want to think what his father would do to him for breaking the cross-bow.  
Faintly in the back of his mind, he remembered the girl. Technically, she caused all of this. He Twisted around, ready to unjustifiably scream at her.  
She looked very pale, too pale actually. With a feeble trickle of horror, Daryl saw a thick current of blood oozing from her nose. It ran down her ashen lips and spattered boldly across her white blouse.  
With a heavy sway, her knees gave way and she tumbled forward, crashing into the dirt heavily.  
She groaned softly, and then became still.


End file.
